It Had Always Being About The Music
by Kirijo.Kanaru
Summary: A character study of everyoncer's favorite psycholady: Crucru Cruella De Vil. How she went from sweet murderous flapper angel to ultimate queen of sass and darkness. Every Cruella ever mixed up in one story. Expect the unexpected. M for Multiple reasons. Cruella/Anita (yes way); most definitely SeaDevil in the future.
1. Immediate aftermath

**Cruella De Vil nor any other Once Upon A Time' nor Disney' character belongs to my humble person. If they did, they'd be cooler.**

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The realisation suddenly hit her while she was wringing the blood-soaked cloth. The whole fur-making affair had proved messier than she had expected. Not that she minded getting a bit dirty in seeking her pleasure, it was just that the whole ordeal resulted much more time-consuming than she had anticipated. Worst: time-consuming and rather undemanding. Simply put, tedious, and it was a dangerous thing for Cruella De Vil to get bored because, when she did, she began to remember. She began to remember, and then began to overthink. And that was when the Other took control. She threw the -now pink-ish, rag on the floor and resumed the scrubbing. She was trying to be as thorough as possible, expecting that the task presented more of a challenge if she was trying to achieve her mother's standards of quality, for example. The same meticulousness her mother had shown that day, so many years ago, when she committed her first murder. Oh, but was it murder or slaughter when you did it to an animal? Or was it simply killing? Cruella could not understand the difference. Humans were animals as well, after all, but they seemed to enjoy pretending otherwise, endorsed by silly fantasies of god-given rights and superiority. However, at her eighteen years of life she already knew better: dogs were animals, birds were animals, humans were animals, and all animals bled the same when you tore their skins.

It happened when she was five years old. It was a sunny spring day at Hill Hall; outside the sky was clear and the warm grass, inviting. Cruella had finally managed a swift escape from her horrible sour crone of a nana, and was running through the gardens towards the forest, her favorite place to play. Well, it was not as much a forest as it was a large-sized plot of trees her family used to keep the fireplaces alight during cold winter nights, but at the time it looked as huge and dark and scary as her storybooks described. And she loved everything about it, she loved it with all her senses. She loved the contrast of the shadows with the occasional ray of sunshine, she loved the musky smell of the trees, she loved the taste of humidity when she breathed through her mouth, she loved the tickle of the tallgrass on her fingertips when she grazed it while running; but above all, Cruella loved the sound of the birds chirping, high up on the trees. It had always being about the music, Cruella knew now. Even at that time, it really had begun because of it.

It was her favorite thing to do in the whole world, to simply sit there and listen for hours. And she was positive the birds in her forest knew her and loved her back. She knew they waited all day for her, their favorite audience, to arrive so they could delight her with their newest compositions, for Cruella knew they sang a different tune everyday, entirely created in her honour. That day she found herself particularly enthralled by a pretty little bird resting in the low branches. It was the tiniest little bird she had ever seen, olive green with beautiful bright yellow plumage on its head; several years later, upon reading a clothes' catalog inspired by birds, she would learn that her newest friend's name was Goldcrest and that it was considered to be a queen amongst birds because it was golden crowned in lovely contrast with its darker little body. The young girl was so engrossed on studying her petit friend that she did not realised how the sun was starting to set. She played with it, danced to its songs, then she fed it some grains she always carried when she went to the forest. She caressed the soft tiny feathers and discovered a new sense by which love it. She invented a story in which her new friend had flown millions of miles just to meet her, as if it had come to existence only to love her and to be loved by her. As if it knew it had been born to be hers and hers alone. That is why it hurt so much when the beast killed it.

She never saw it coming. She thought she had heard her father's voice calling for her but she had ignored him, as she always did. She did not imagine his monumental mastiff was searching for her as well. And it was so fast. The beast had appeared out of nowhere, and just taken her friend away as it was feeding from her hand; it was a miracle it had not taken her fingers away from her as well. Cruella stood there, petrified; her father's voice was closer but she could not respond. She just stared at the mastiff, who was now walking in his master's direction; its prey held proudly between its teeth. She hated it. She usually disliked the loud animal but the feeling had intensified tenfold by its most recent crime. Cruella saw her friend's wrecked body impaled by the immense canines, blood dripping from the wounds, and she was aghast; was it really that easy to end a life? Her mind exploded with questions. Her anger articulated in the way she pressed the remaining grains in her palm until she turned them into little more than dust. More importantly, she though, was it really that easy to take something she wanted away from her, that even a complete brute could do it? Make her this unhappy? She decided not. That was when her father appeared. After a hug and a slap of equal duration and gracelessness, they started the way home; he babbling nonsense about the dangers of disappearing like that and how she was going to be his death, she not listening to him at all. She was staring at the beast running ahead of them. She stared as it raced to the house and gave its prize to Mrs. De Vil, who was pacing at the entrance door. She stared as her mother took it and unceremoniously threw it in the hands of the footman. And then she stared as the footman took it by the very last feather of its right wing, as if it were soiled, and walked out of sight, clearly with the intention of throwing it with the kitchen waste. Her would soon be feeding vermin because of her father's beast. She kept walking, staring and planning.

Once they reached the house, she avoided any sort of contact with her mother by suddenly bursting into tears; she knew her mother could not handle her crying and would instantaneously run at the sight of her daughter's tears, as would also her father. Even at such a young age Cruella was well aware of her parent's resistance to… well, to her. She had memories of being a very small baby in a very large cradle, in a very large room, and utterly, desperately lonely. Not that she could remember complete scenarios, no; it was the sentiment she remembered, the halo of coldness permanently surrounding her. Even to this day: she was always cold. Her mother had shown no interest in her existence ever since -and possibly even before, she came into this world; not beyond occasionally making certain that she was still breathing. And her father had not made any effort as to inquire further into the causes for her wife's situation; he barely seemed to notice the situation at all, being constantly away, back in the continent with his precious vineyards. Coldness and detachment had been all she had been presented with as a child, and by this time and age it was all she could remember ever feeling. However, the nature of her relationship -or lack thereof, with her parents had made it easier for her to understand them and make them do as she willed. Much like her mother's talent for taming beasts, she had developed a talent of her own, only applied to the most aggravating animal of all: people. She always knew how to handle people, how to get what she wanted from them and how to avoid conflict; crying or laughing, she always knew just which tool would help her, and thus she used them often. As planned, her mother ran back inside as soon as her daughter started sobbing, most likely to retrieve her salt from the medicine cabinet. Her father hastily followed, after giving quick vague instructions to her nana, not looking once at his recently retrieved child. The girl calmed herself before the hag had a chance to disturb her with any of her prussian notions of education and entered the house as well. She saw her mother leaving the study with the familiar vial of white powder in her hand. Little Cruella smiled and ran to her with open arms. The woman stopped to accept the hug, stiff as a board. It was funny; sometimes Cruella felt as if she frightened her own mother, and that made Cruella feel very comfortable but very bored as well. Everything was just too bloody easy. The girl released her mother and made her way to her room, escorted by the crone, who sent her to bed without dinner.

The next morning, as Cruella's mother would tell it in the years to come, Mrs. De Vil announced herself as she entered her daughter's room but the girl was not there. She called for Mrs. Preewet, the nana, but she found that the old woman was already preoccupied looking for her. She had already covered two out of three floors with the maids' help and had sent the kitchen lad to look for her in the tree plantation, but the girl was nowhere to be found. The new commotion threw Mrs. De Vil's -already weakened by the previous day's incident, nerves overboard, so she made her way to the medicine cabinet in the study to get her headache medicine. It surprised her to find the key placed in the keyhole and the doors half opened. The thought of having left the cabinet in such a state baffled and mortified her in equal parts; God knows what could have happened if her daughter had had access to such a dangerous-«AAAHHHHHH...» The woman was thrown out of her thoughts by a series of horrified screams. They appeared to come from the backyard so the woman raced to the place as fast as her legs allowed. She took the library's door to the side of the house, which was the fastest route, and was almost there when she stumbled upon the source of the screams: it was Mrs. Preewet, who was white as a ghost, leaning against the house's wall and making a monumental effort to breath, as if someone had just extracted all the air out of her lungs. «She's the devil! SHE HAS THE DEVIL INSIDE OF HER», screamed the old woman as she held the younger by the shoulders. «What is happening, nana Preewet!? Is it Cruella? You must tell me, where is she!?» But there was no answer, as the nana Preewet held her chest and used all of her strength to catch air. Cruella's mother freed herself from the gasping woman's grip, letting her fall on the gravel. She ran the rest of the way to backyard, her heart on her throat, and called for the girl to no avail. Finally, she caught sight of her inside the kennels. All her dogs had been released. She found her daughter still on the previous day's clothes, sitting in front of the kennel of her husband's favorite mastiff... surrounded by an ocean of blood... and vomit... and what appeared to be entrails... Soon enough, the faint smile on Cruella's face and the many vials and bottles of medicine spread around into the gore initiated a gruesome retelling of the little girl's night in Madeline head. She saw her little fingers hovering delicately over the redness, barely grazing the surface with her fingertips, and then diving into it with urge; she evidently enjoyed the sensation. The woman called for her daughter with a strangely steady voice, for steady was definitely not how she felt at the moment, but somehow the situation did not shocked her as it probably should have. No, it was not the situation at all; it was the girl who did not surprised her, and it was that realisation which made her cry with fright. Little Cruella stood up and slowly walked to her mother; little bare feet emerging crimson every step she took. She glared at her for years but Madeline could not bring herself to speak at this point, tears streaming silently down her trembling anatomy. She stood there trying to comprehend, trying to make sense of the little tainted beast in front of her. Finally, Cruella smiled at her mother, she even giggled, «Duke didn't eat my birdie last night so I made sure he wouldn't be hungry...»

«Ever again», growled Cruella as she tore the cloth in her hands apart. Oh, she had done it again. She had allowed her mind away with the fairies again and now she was covered in the blood she was so dutifully trying to get rid of. Even her creation was displaying new spots, although, more on the red side of the spectrum. The young woman reflected on her latest disjointment with reality. It was common for her to drift away but it was usually triggered by a strong burst of anger; to date, in fact, it had always been about the music or something related to it, as she had just realised. The weirdest part was that she had not completely gone this time. She had been there with the Other as she decided scrubbing it was not as close to the fluid as she wanted to be, only She –that is her conscious-self, had been distracted, as if seeing her actions through a mist; but no blackout. Cruella, even though she could not control her motions, felt the slickness of the cold blood in her hands, saw the lively red in its colour, smelled the penetrating rustiness it expelled, heard its wetness spread through her skin and tasted the metal in its scent, and she immediately loved it. She had not sense so vividly since that first escapade with her father's beast, when she had come to her five-year-old self –after giving the mutt what it deserved, and experienced the warmth of fresh out blood. She had bathed in it and the halo of coldness was forgotten for a blissful while. Tonight she had missed the warmth as she was not there when the Other engaged in the messy part, but she had gorged her senses with everything else murder had to offer and she found that she was rather satisfied at the moment.

Cruella set aside her coat, not wanting to soil it further, and sighed: the job was finished and her floor was now impeccable.

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**Hello and welcome to my little experiment~**

Cruella De Vil, as performed by Victoria Smurfit, is simply the best that has happened to me and –for what I read, to OUAT in a long time. I deeply love her portrayal, and so I wanted to take what she added to the character and mix it up a bit with previous renditions to see what would happen. So this is basically me going all out mad scientist and changing a lot of stuff, but rest assured that 98% of even the most eyebrow-raising-worthy changes have been thoroughly investigated for your reading pleasure.

This is going to be a character study so expect a lot of insight and not much dialogue –at least not at first. Originally, this was going to be a one-shot, but I had this idea that I thought worth exploring and as my research grew so did the story; I hope it won't extend beyond 8 chapters but one never knows, right? I have almost everything I need -data-wise, at the moment so chapters shouldn't take long. Also, this is my first attempt at actually writting down my imagination; I hope it doesn't show as much as I think it does.

Leave comments, questions, cussing: I promise to answer them all, specially the cussing ;)


	2. Tardy Aftermath

**Cruella De Vil nor any other Once Upon A Time' nor Disney' character belongs to my humble person. If they did, they'd be cooler.**

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She was almost happy she had not killed that silly reporter now. She had dismissed the staff for the night right after her mother's… _passing_, and - unbeknown to them, she had locked them in the servant's quarters, in which had probably been her wisest move to date, now that she stopped to reflect about the whole affair. In her bloodlust, she had been careless, relentless. If she had carried on scattering empty carcasses around the house, as she had almost accomplished, one of the servants would have notice and alerted the others; and then cleaning duty would have doubled, tripled even. She did not enjoy menial work like tidying, she had learnt tonight. Mostly because it was _desperately_ prosaic. Involving in repetitive motions and processes, time and time again, was something she could simply not endure nor allow, being the nature of her boredom-induced blackouts as it was. It was mediocre and dangerous, and she could not afford to assume those qualities, not anymore. Not now that she had finally reached her freedom. So Cruella was actually quite relieved that she had not been able to finish the pitiful male off, but she was quite confused about it as well. She understood he had used that magical -she would need to revise that piece of data very carefully, pen of his to make her do, or rather 'not do', something. She had felt it work on her just as the animal manipulation skill had worked on her hours earlier, but she was not entirely sure what he had done or how it would affect her. She was not even sure if both would still work tomorrow morning. The woman stood, careful not to let the pail spill red on the patterned surface, and admired her work while making a solemn promise not to put herself in this situation ever again.

Cruella thought about tomorrow morning, already vexed by the downpour of issues she would have to deal with then. It would not just be explaining the newest change of management to the staff and invent some clever lie about her mother's whereabouts -'trouble in daddy's vineyards' would have to cover it until she thinks of something more _tragic_, she would also have to consult with the family lawyers about matters of property and heritage. She had read extensively about it on her father's books but she was not aware of her personal situation since her mother had never shared the contents of his will with her, thinking her too young and ditsy for such serious matters. Truth was Cruella De Vil had been educated by the best tutors Essex could offer; and in a remarkably short amount of time, at that, -accelerated at her mother's insistence but followed through without problem by the girl. In her constant brawl against ennui, she had read every book in the library -which covered an ample diversity of topics, at least twice, and she had demonstrated inventive and resourcefulness in every one of her fathers murders: as far as she was concerned, she had always been rather bright. Not that she had anyone to compare herself with, but it did not mattered: she had always had solely her own opinion to rely on and that had always been enough for her, so it would have to be enough for the rest as well. She would also have to think whatever to do about the servants; they were prospective witnesses to a murder case and simply too near for comfort. It was fortunate that her mother had made certain they would be a small and mostly young group, which she would renovate every couple of years to make sure they never interacted with her daughter more than was absolutely necessary. Most of them were not even aware of her existence, as she had discovered when she went down to the kitchens that night. Only the cook -a lovely old female who knew her as a child and managed to smuggle biscuits to the attic every once in a while during her confinement years, and the footman-become-butler -the one who had treated her Goldcrest friend in such disgraceful manner, had recognized her. The young would be easy to relocate and the cook could stay, but the butler would require some sort of _especial_ treatment.

Lost in her machinations, the woman barely noticed she had made her way to the gardens with the pail of dog blood still in her hand. She headed to the patch of dirt where her precious trumpets had once thrived, strong and beautiful, under her mindful care. Without much of a thought, she poured out the contents of the pail on the abandoned dirt, feeding it. It had always being easy bringing life to anything around her -being an ancient dusty attic or the most finicky of flowers; and it was rather funny how easy it came her, when her favorite thing about life was the _thrill_ of squeezing it out of a breathing body. The irony was _far_ from subtle. Cruella walked to the fountain in the center of the garden and started washing the cloth she had used to scrub the floor, gathering every wringed drop in the pail. The water ran reddish, at first, then pink; the woman persisted until it became transparent again. She made her way to the dirt patch -her dirt patch, to feed it again, with the blood meal the cloth provided. She felt like an ancient priestess offering a sacrifice to whichever goddess favored Angel's Trumpets. She was fairly certain it was a woman but she could not recall her name, History never being her forte: why look into a dying sunset when the light flickering at dawn is so much brighter? Anyway, she was feeling quite primordial at the moment and she enjoyed it, so she engaged. She went to gather more water from the fountain and returned. She had thrown away her shoes and dipped barefoot on the muddy surface, pail of clear water high on her hands; she took a deep breath. «Fucking _cold_!», she screamed as the water ran across her body, taking any evidence of the slaughter away and into the famished soil, getting warmer as it advanced. Cruella thought of the vulgarity she had voiced, and of the freedom she had to voice it now; and then she laughed. She laughed aloud and she contorted and she clenched her hurting belly, and then she laughed even more. The woman spun around in her ruined dress and felt her wet locks getting messier, but it did not matter; she felt so excited!

Therefore, as enthralled as she was on her little celebration, the woman did not realised she was being watched. Not until he had the decency to signalise his presence... by_ laughing_. Cruella jumped back in caution; it had been the quietest of snickers but she had felt it anyway. She had _felt_ it in her body, like a vibration; and she had jolted at the feeling, just as her mother's beasts used to jolt at the sound of thunder. The woman realised, then, that she was not shaken by this stranger's intrusion at all; she had known of his presence all along. She was not sure what to make of this sudden heightening of the senses but she would figure it out at a later time; right now, she chose to use this as an advantage. She quickly adopted a more insouciant demeanor, hoping the male had not perceived her hesitation. The trick with beasts -as she had learnt from her constant encounters with the dalmatians, was to mantain the appearance of control. She knew they were able to smell fear, but if the body language was not threatening to them, they would adopt a cautious behavior rather than aggresive, and that represented gained ground for her and her plans. Appearance was key in every aspect of life, Cruella firmly believed; and thus, she would change her own whenever was needed. It had worked wonders in her adolescence years against her stepfathers, again tonight on the reporter and, she was sure, would do so in any other male she encountered. She assessed the smiling intruder using her newest tools to gather any nip of information: he looked courtly, he felt tense, he sounded chary, he did not smelled of fear and… he must have _terrible_ taste to be wearing that hat. Until she knew more, the woman opted for the curious and gullible caged bird, especially designed to destroy the... 'sterner' sex's defenses. «Most frightfully sorry... _sir_, but I do not seem to be able to recall your face. Are you, by any chance, a friend of my mother? », she asked innocently. «I'm not, my lady», was his answer as he began to slowly approach her. «Could it be, then, that you work here? », she asked, again innocently. «I'm afraid not, my lady», he had closed the distance between them to a barely decent couple of steps but Cruella De Vil refused to be intimidated by such an inferior creature. The woman simply stood in place, full height and defiance. The smiling stranger studied her carefully, but now she was able to inspect him as well. His smile looked more forced than amused. The tension she had observed on his shoulders appeared to extent to the entirety of his body, as if he was permanently prepared to run in the opposite direction, should trouble arise. His eyes were bored; not her usual uninterested sort of bored but truly _weary_, as if he had already seen _everything_ the world had to offer and was mentally exhausted of its repetitiveness. Cruella felt her chest race, her head spin: she was completely taken by the thought, utterly stimulated by the possibilities. She changed tactics.

«Then what could possibly be that brings such an excellent World _connoisseur_ as yourself to my garden this evening? It is _hardly_ time for visits, sir», the woman tried to apply a bit of _accidental_ flirt to every word, just enough so she could steer away in time if necessary. The male smiled again but now that Cruella had him this close and personal, she could not help but notice how forced the smile was, how fake it looked in contrast with those apathetic eyes. He was trying to appear complacent but was failing miserably. «You know, the picture-of-purity act doesn't quite agree with that look you carry, my lady», he signalised to the fountain, inviting her to see for herself. Cruella was rather confused by the comment; sure, she must be a bit of a mess right now but, if anything, it should be cause for concern, not for mockery. She sneered at him and ambled to the fountain, incredulous. She looked down on the reflecting surface and froze as she discovered a set of curious eyes gazing back at her under a rather thick layer of make-up. The dark shadows above her eyes and the flaring cherry red lips made the most beautiful disparity with the female's fair complexion. The soaked bangs that framed her face were divided in two-coloured symmetry, one side black and one side white, which gave her a delightfully eccentric visage. The whole look was rather unique, and it gave the female before her a very strong sophisticated _mystique_, as those film stars she had spent her lonely days reading about, devouring magazines and picture books. This female fascinated her in a way that only music had achieved before. Suddenly, the enchanting innocent expression changed into a confused furrowing of eyebrows, as if she were wondering the same as Cruella-«Oh...», she whispered in appreciation. She delicately reached for her right cheek and watched the beauty in the water mimic her action; then she noticed the diamond earrings she was wearing, the same the reporter had written for her. She suddenly blasted into joyous laughter, her sky blue eyes ablaze with delight. Her freckles were no more, replaced by flawless milk-white skin that made all her other colours radiate with dazzling force; she was sure she could stop a train with just her gaze. And, _oh_, the hair! The whole evenness in her contrasts both embodied and concealed her inner being in such poetic fashion. She understood the male's words now; she needed the confidence to match this particular picture, a confidence her past self could never achieve. She needed change, a vast variety of changes. So for the third time this evening, she changed strategy, but she felt quite confident this one would never want to leave.

«Well, _darling_», she whispered; «…isn't this swell? » The woman turned to face the stranger; her accommodating smile transfixed into a fierce grin, her eyes wide, and sharp like sabres. She examined him from head to toe, grin broadening, «how should I call you then, tall dark stranger? ». «Jefferson's the name, my lady», he said as he took off the ridiculously oversized hat and engaged in an equally ridiculously exaggerated bow. Cruella did not mind the honorific but she surely was not accustomed to hearing it in her direction. It rolled out of the male's tongue with ease but she was not sure she entirely liked it. Besides, it was her father's title, and, knowing the law, she was positive it could not become hers so why bother getting used to it. «Oh, do _please_ drop that dreadful distinction. I find honorifics to be appallingly dull, do you not agree? Long tradition and all. Might even be _because_ of it...», the woman initiated a rhythmic gait; hipswinging her way, pass the male, towards her house. She turned without stopping, «are you going to stay there all night, darling? You will catch your death! »; the woman smiled and turned, again without stopping, waltzing into the house with as much grace as her muddy steps allowed. A sensible female would have never invited a stranger into her home -not at this hour nor any other hour, unchaperoned, but Cruella De Vil was definitely not just _any_ female. Moreover, at the moment, she was sure to be more sensible than all of them together, for upon entering the house she went straight to her Dalmatian fur and recovered the gun she had written for herself with the magic pen. She hid it into her stockings and turned just in time to see the male entering the room. «I could not possibly abide myself to fall ill at a time like this, you see; so much to do! » She covered herself with the fur, trembling slightly, making display of her apparent vulnerability; after all, people always underestimate a girl in diamonds and furs. «Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of such... _genteel_ company? » She made the gibe clear in her voice but paused to peer at the archaic top hat the male held behind his back, for emphasis. At this, the male smiled, peevishly like a child. «I was around the neighborhood, Miss-» «What an odd thing to say. I insist you tell me your intentions at once, lest I will be forced to command the dogs against you», she cut him mid-sentence, blunt; a blind rage was starting to burn inside her, like none she ever thought she possessed. Well, none except for the Other. However, she could not let her take charge right now; she breathed and blinked away her anger, relaxed her body, poised. Jefferson dropped his fake smile at the interruption and glared intensely at her, caution forgotten. He looked hurt, as if she had robbed him of something he desired, although Cruella could not begin to imagine what the strange male was after. He stood in place, bringing the hat forward, extending his arm in her direction. «Why, you of course... darling».

It happened in a blur but she managed to keep track. The male had dropped his hat in front of her -probably an attempt to distract her, and then raced in her direction, fast as a bullet. However, Cruella's first impression was wrong for the male had not intended to grab her, no; he was after her fur coat. The blind rage that had almost overcome her before suddenly burst alight inside her; it rose from the pit of her stomach, through her chest and into her head, from where it came out as a shout. «How _dare_ you trying to separate me from what is _mine_!? », she barked. «Stop! »; and then, without thinking, she discharged all that rage she had within towards her attacker, in a green haze. The enchanted whirlwind surrounded the male before he could touch her; barely inches away, he immediately froze. A second after, his entire body slowly began to relax: his arms loosened, his expression placated, his intentions dissipated. Cruella examined the expression on his face: a mix of confusion and anger; he had raised an arm to his chest at the last second, as if he had expected for her to counter-attack but wasn't expecting exactly for it to be like this. She smiled at him, satisfied as she saw fear crept into his eyes. The smirk in her face suddenly transfixed into an indignant sneer; «now, darling, is that _any_ way for a guest to behave? ». The woman circled her prey with calmed malice; knowing he grew a bit more nervous with every clic her shoes clac'd. In all honesty, she was not entirely sure what had just happened but -again, she did not feel surprised by the outcome, merely relieved. Somehow she seemed to have control over this male, which had clearly only been possible thanks to her new skill; but did this mean she had power over humans as well? Could it be that it only worked on males? Was it that this particular stranger had particular qualities that made him vulnerable to her power? She tried to consider other possibilities but found herself more interested in what the male had to offer; not in matters of amusement –which she briefly considered before recalling her promise, but regarding information.

«Your lack of perplexity is most bewildering… Jefferson, was it? », the male followed her with his eyes but otherwise did not move. She stopped her pacing to face him. «I demand you answer me at once», at this, the male staggered and spitted a low confirmation, seemingly against his wishes. «Tell me then, what on earth are you doing in my property? », she resumed her idle gait following random courses across the floor. He grimaced as if he was in pain, «I'm following the magic». Cruella changed course hastily and faced her prey, her eyelids slightly closed, her eyes raving with hatred. «So you _do_ know about magic. Are you working with that nasty reporter and his magical pen? » The male furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and examined her, looking for insincerity. «Answer me now», she pressured. «I was only following the magic» The woman had a better mind than to believe him so she inquired further. «Explain yourself. What do you mean by '_following the magic_'? ». «Only what I said. I've been following a great source of magic for the past few days. Tonight, it led me to this place just to move into the woods afterwards; I followed, but it disappeared about three hours ago. I thought I had lost my chance to go back but then I felt a small amount of magic still inside the house, so I came back for it», he eyed the fur again. «What do you mean 'go back'? You sound perfectly English. Where are you going back to? Answer », she could feel her suspicions grow as she kept asking questions, and her anxiety as she heard them confirmed. «Go back… home», he was obviously fighting but she was not going to be fooled; «Where is this home of yours, male? Answer! », she asked desperately. Only one word blasted out of his mouth, «Wonderland! » The sky blue eyes glanced at the male in awe. She had suspected such a thing, given her earlier conversation with the reporter but it was another matter entirely to have it confirmed by one of his creatures; and she knew him too! She had read _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ so many times that the tome was shabby, with crooked pages and tattered covers. She never began a book by its first page but from some point in the middle, to make sure the story was, in fact, interesting. The surreal environment and silly disposition of most characters reminded her too much of her first stepfather's flamboyant _soirées;_ thus she hated the book instantly. However she was entranced by this girl who appeared to have been given the opportunity to escape her dull aristocratic life and took it without a second thought, so she returned to the beginning of the book and devoured it in minutes. She dreamt, the next few nights, of her very own journey to many distant lands, with the book clutched against her chest. Cruella's startled blue gaze examined the male's hollow orbits which were moving hyperactively, compensating for the inertia of the rest of his body, and then she remembered… the hat. «You are the Mad Hatter… », she whispered.

He grimaced, as if the name hurt him, and nodded. The woman could only stare at him, marveled by the implications of this creature's presence in her house. The reporter had said something about 'this world' being aside from time, which meant there others that were not; he said he collected stories, which meant there was a place where they all would stow and intersect, like a library of sorts; he wrote them down and collected them, which meant he must be able to look for them in those other worlds, and thus had access to the place where they were stacked. Her mind raced formulating questions and resolving them herself; she often jumped into conclusions and was, almost always, proven right at the end. Finally, she asked the first question she failed –or dreaded, to find an answer for, «Is this world without magic? Answer » He grinned as he obliged, «not _anymore_, my lady». «I am going to free you now and you are going to tell me everything I want to know. You will not try to escape, and if you do I am just going to trap you again and feed you to the beasts. Are we clear on this? »; Jefferson glared daggers at her but finally nodded. As if he had any choice. She released the mental grip she had on the male, like loosening a dog from its collar; the male's body regained tension as she did, and the next moment he was sitting on the floor manoeuvring to his hat, which flied across the room to his head, only to be rapidly taken off and placed in between his crossed legs. «Comfortable? », Cruella asked, raising an eyebrow to such display of crassness. «At least, better than before; although, a nice cup of tea would help me making me feel more at home… my lady», he retorted, but the woman had already resumed her pacing and completely ignored him. «If I am getting the picture correctly, you and the reporter who was here before come from another world; a different world where time passes. You both came here with some sort of magic, probably the same magic he used to escape afterwards, the magic that gave me this power: the pen. That means you have one of those pens as well but, for some reason, you cannot use it to escape so you came here looking for my fur coat… », she was trying to piece everything that had happened that night together; she felt struck by lightning, fueled by it. «…because it is drenched with _ink_. It is the ink you are after, not my coat», she stopped for confirmation, gazing wide-eyed at the male in the floor; «The magic source you were talking about is the ink that is spilled on my coat». He had a mix of confusion and surprise in his expression; he stopped to consider everything she had just said, previous smugness forgotten. «Answer me now! », she shouted, making the male jump on reflex. «I didn't hear a question, my lady, _but_... », he added as he saw the murderous look forming in the woman's eyes; «I do understand what you're saying; _most_ of it, anyway. You see, I come from the Land of Wonder, as I mentioned before, from which I can get out –almost always, at will with my hat», he presented the inside of the hat to her; «with which I'm able to cross to other realms, like the Enchanted Forest, where I recently moved. There I run a little business of retrieving artefacts from other realms, at my costumers' request». «So… the Mad Hatter is nothing more than a glorified thief maddened by mercury abuse, how quaint», Cruella chuckled at her own joke, which was not as well received by her guest. «If you allow me to continue, _my lady_, I assure you you'll find me even more amusing…» The woman nodded, «do so». «My latest assignment was to follow a man who, apparently, had the same abilities as I. He didn't look like much: a bit anxious but good-natured, rather silly man», Cruella blanked her eyes at the mention; «I followed him to this realm where, as I found out rather late, there was no magic whatsoever, which made my return impossible; and the worst thing was, I had lost track of the man in my initial disorientation». The male grinned bitterly and lowered his head, «there's nothing worse than to know yourself alone and powerless at the same time, I can tell you. You probably have no idea… ». But she did have an idea; hell, sometimes it felt like the whole notion had been invented for her. She had known loneliness up close since childhood, and felt equally powerless once her mother had stacked her in that attic with the rest of her forgotten belongings, at the mercy of her vicious dogs. She felt the halo of coldness intensify around her, even over her coat; she crossed her arms, warding herself from it. «Do continue», she said in a hollow steady tone.

«This realm does occur through time, unlike what you just said; I've been here for over, what you'd call, a year. Growing more and more desperate to return home, especially after knowing about your big bad war; if I wanted to witness any more slaughter and death I'd have remained in Wonderland after the Queen of Hearts took over», his eyes went a little… mad, at that; Cruella couldn't find another way to describe it. «And how did you stumble upon the reporter again? », she inquired. «Apparently, the lack of magic in this environment propelled other of my abilities; I can sense magic around objects and people, since I constantly need powerful sources of specific magic to fuel my hat. It took me months to track him down but I finally managed to catch him in the vicinity, which was strange: he usually doesn't stay anywhere for long», he looked at her and grinned again; «I suppose I have _you_ to thank for that, _my lady_». She chose to ignore the honourific again, certain as she was he was trying to make her angry and unsteady; she certainly could not afford to lose herself at the moment. «So you followed him to this place and planned to steal his pen and ink to return to your realm» «I knew he had magic on him, a powerful sort of magic, but I didn't know what to look for. Magic comes in many forms: objects, light, air, even… _people_, sometimes», he stared at her, trying to see beyond, to something hidden in her anatomy. Cruella, once more, chose to ignore the unbalanced male and continued her interrogation. «Could it be possible, then, that this coat has become magical because it's been spilled with magical ink? », she reached for the spotted fabric, now stained with large dots of ink and blood as well, and displayed it for the male to examine. He blinked as he was brought back from his thoughts and eyed the coat, inspecting it with eagerness, «I'd say it is, my lady; very possible»; he stood up but did not move from his place, only extended a hand in the woman's direction, «may I? » She stopped her pacing at the sight of him standing; she tensed, retrieving the gun and pointing it in his direction. «You may not. Not until we have settled a few particulars first»; the male retreated his hand with a sharp move, giving her a disappointed sigh. «You may not realise this, as we have just met and you make a rather piss-pour detective, but I have suffered from a secluded… life, in the most literal sense. I have no idea what year it is, neither our current date; and, until you told me, just now, I had no idea that there was a war going on somewhere-». «If we've already passed midnight, the date is March 31, 1919; war ended last November». Cruella laughed inside a bit, what a perfect _unbirthday_ gift this day had been, concluding in her real birthday. «Do not interrupt me», she paused for a moment, considering her options; «As I was saying, since I have almost none practical knowledge of the _real _world yet, I have no desire to leave it anytime soon. However, this does not mean I will be forever satisfied with its contents, and thus, I might choose to explore new ones someday», she grinned wildly, looking at the blank canvas in front of her and filling it with prospects. She put the gun down and directed her attention to Jefferson, «oh darling, I do think we have the most marvelous of friendships ahead of us»

Cruella was tired of having breakfast alone in her room like she had been doing for the past ten years, so, as soon she woke up, she commanded her mother's maid to prepare the dining room for her morning meal. Once there, she instructed the maid –now _her _maid, on all the activities they would be engaging in for the rest of the day; especially relocating all her belongings in the master bedroom. Little was inquired about her mother's whereabouts; the staff did not seem to be particularly fond of her either. «Also, tell the gardener I prepared a plot for him to sow a new flower, and I want it done as soon as possible. The name of the flower is Datura Metel_ Fastuosa, _the blacker the better. Do not dare getting it wrong», she said before dismissing the maid and resuming her meal. She tasted the fruit they had prepared for her but find it utterly unsatisfying; it was mild, dull, and she felt her jaw tense with the need to chew on something… _stringier_. The woman asked for a small piece of meat, rare, and a glass of her father's red wine for her breakfast. As it arrived, she could smell the mixture of scents emanating from each piece; she could smell the fire in the meat and that what fire did to you in the wine. She cut a piece of the mostly raw meat and marveled at the red it held inside; blood juicing all over the white surface of her plate. She heard the juices as she chewed slowly, and moaned at the tenderness and feeling of its texture, wrapped in a sensual haze. She almost cried at the taste of blood in her tongue; sweet, salty, coppery: she could only described it as fabulous, and that was enough for her. She sighed happily and chuckled, finishing her first bite, bracing herself for the second. «Is this more to your liking, my lady? », the footman-become-butler asked innocently. «Do not call me that», she snapped, startling him a bit; «Yes, I am enjoying this very much…» Cruella had a mind to order this plate for every meal every day, but she could not pronounce the words; she panicked at first, afraid that she had suddenly lost her voice or something of the sort, but tried other words as she saw the butler's increasingly worry grow in his body language. «Is…», she tried; «Is there any more meat left? » «We must have enough for the rest of the week, Miss», was her answer. She tried to command him to buy more but the words were trapped in her mouth once again. The woman slammed her fork into the plate, which caused it to break. She thought she knew what was happening to her and became so angry, she wanted to destroy everything around her. She was so enraged she did not notice she had hurt her hand with the porcelain pieces. «Miss…», started the butler, who _had_ noticed her injury, but Cruella interrupt him; «Call Mr. Rampling and Mr. Knight. Tell them I need them both here with my father's will at once. If they cannot arrive today, tell them that I will be forced to find lawyers who can». «But, Miss-» «And leave me alone. Now! » The butler stood startled for a second but quickly regained his sense of survival and made haste to retrieve what remained of the plate and steak and put it in service tray. Cruella watched as he did, slowly reaching for the gun she had hidden in her stockings. She waited until the butler started his way out of the dining room to bring the gun out and point at him, just at the center of his back. She remembered how he had treated her friend all those many years ago; the indignity Goldcrest had to suffer at that male's hand. This scrawny little male was the sole remaining culprit of the most hideous of crimes, and he had to be punished. But as much as she tried to coax her finger to squeeze the trigger could simply not do it; her opportunity lost, as the male finally left the room.

Cruella threw the gun over the table and began to suck the blood pouring from her fingers, trying to find solace in the taste. That _fucking_ reporter and his _fucking bloody_ writing! This curse was going to be absolutely bloody unbearable.

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Hello again and thanks for reading~  
I didn't know ff gave such detailed information about the readers. I was rather surprised/excited to find that this had been read in places such as China, Netherlands and Saudi Arabia. As a language geek, I am ecstatic, and I have a bit of a favour to ask. Please, could you, **#devildarlings**, –wherever you're from, add 'hello, darling' and/or 'hello, gorgeous' in your mother language when you review? It will probably appear in future chapters since Cru is in such a hurry to experience the world, and what better way to experience something than to make it yours, am I right? ;)

Also, thanks to you (yes, _you_), who followed, and to **Mia** and **MaraMania** for their support and taking the time to review this clumsy little piece.** MaraMania**, _dahling_, of course I will continue; the fun has just begun~

**Albums listened**: Amy Winehouse's discography to set the mood, and Uh Huh Her's Common Reaction.


	3. Not enough gin I

**Cruella De Vil nor any other Once Upon A Time' nor Disney' character belongs to my humble person. If they did, they'd be cooler.**

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«Aha, perfect timing! », Cecil jumped out of his seat as if it had pinched him. He checked himself, looking for imperfections in his suit, flattening his greased up hair. Not that it made any difference; he looked exactly as he was: a sad needy mock of a person who had spent too much of his fortune on a flashy American wardrobe, in hopes it would make him look like some majestic exotic bird. Mission accomplished: he looked like a bloody dodo. He was even acting like one at the moment, excitingly bouncing his way to effusively welcome his guests. He greeted the girl first, an exuberant young female with an airy aura about her; she was positively _glistening_ as she beamed at Cecil, scanning every bit of the room as a meerkat on caffeine. She was probably Rose. Cruella knew they were the same age but it certainly did not appear so, at least not mentally. «My dear Rosebud! », they hugged as if they were not English; «it has been what, like one week already? » The young female laughed, «Time barely seems to move when we are apart, Cecil dear». «Why, it stops entirely! But now that it's moving once again, let me use it to introduce you to my very lovely intended, Ms. Mallory Travers, soon-to-be De Vil», he winked at his fiancée, who was preoccupied scrambling to her feed and making a clumsy curtsy to the Lady Rose, who curtsied back with an amused expression on her face. «And this is my most sublime cousin, Lady Cruella De Vil, the one person I've been gawking about since the Season began; you must be tired of hearing about her-» «Never! », Rose looked at her with her wide eyes extended to its full capacity, as if she was terrified of such a thought; «don't listen to him, Lady De Vil; I have heard such wonderful stories about your journeys... I find them utterly captivating! » «Thank you, darling, I look forward to hearing about you as well someday» The female beamed, the words' meaning lost to her, and took the seat Cecil was offering her. «I'm sorry to tell you, Cecil dear, that cousin Edith couldn't accompany us tonight; she offers her excuses. But we found a last minute replacement, I'm sure you will like». As if announced, a male appeared behind them; a tall male with big round eyes and a huge bright smile of white teeth who greeted Cecil as one would –she supposed, a long-time friend. He did not look specially refined, really; were not for his obviously expensive outfit, she would have identify him as any average middle class male walking down the street... to go to work. Cecil introduced him as Anthony Foyle, Viscount of Gilligham, an old acquaintance from his modest merchant times. The male made display of his noble upbringing and bowed to the ladies at the table. «How do you do, Lady De Vil? I trust you had a pleasant journey». «Oh absolutely wretched, darling: a nightmare. Not that you could expect anything else of French service, now could you? », the male looked at her blankly for an instant. «Honesty», he laughed; «how refreshing! » Cruella smirked but, before she could retort, the male turned and extended his arms to a third person walking their direction. Maybe it was the buoyancy of her gait, or the easy grace with which she crossed the sea of dancers to reach their table, but Cruella could simply _not_ stop gazing. Everything about this woman screamed_ éclat_; even in her modest attire –a simple black straight dress that cascaded_ beautifully_ around her slender figure, concealing their secrets, the augustness of her aura should have been enough to bring everyone in the room to their _knees_; knowing themselves in presence of royalty. As she came closer, Cruella could better appreciate those hooded dark eyes, _heavy_ with a certain sort of wisdom which was unknown to her: the sadness of loss. She had an intelligent face full of sadness and longing; Cruella could tell she was miles away, even as she finally reached their table and greet the hosts.

«I was afraid you had lost your way», Lord Gilligham smiled broadly at the fascinating new arrival; he was palpably smitten with her, Cruella could tell immediately, and _who _could blame him? «I nearly did... It was quite a task to get here, considering there is no _maître_, nor good lightning», the woman responded; she raised her eyebrows, directing her apprehension to Lord Gilligham, who responded by laughing. «Really, I wonder how anyone manages to see beyond their own noses…» «Cousin Mary, I want you to meet, Cecil De Vil, he is a good friend and a _joy_ to dance with», Rose introduced Cecil with the fervour of a pupil introducing her venerated teacher. «It is an honour to finally meet the famous Lady Mary Crawley! I have many friends, my lady, but I will not trust them any longer; not now that I've witnessed how they failed to describe your beauty», the slimy goofball kissed the woman's gloved hand; she dedicated him a forced smile, clearly uncomfortable. «Goodness, what a reputation to live up to! I don't know what I did to impress your friends so, Lord De Vil, but I assure you I don't deserve such fanfare», she was ushered to her seat by her diligent suitor. «He is not a lord yet», Cruella easily caught the attention of the entire table; «_please_ do not inflate his ego: it is hard enough to handle as it is». Cruella smirked at Mary, who was seated right across the table and smiled back at her with complicity. «But I believe _you_ are, Lady De Vil, and, unlike me, you _definitely_ are the talk of this Season. Dear Rose and I have only heard about the prodigal heiress returning from her adventures in the Continent». «All lies, darling, I assure you. Three years is _hardly_ enough to time to see the world... _merely_ the half that matters, really», she waved for a waiter; «am I the only one thirsty? ». After they had ordered their drinks they engaged in one of those tedious exchanges she could not get used to, even if she _did_ enjoy them to a certain degree. She told them about her original trip to France, where she arrived after her mother's passing there -victim of the spanish flu, to administrate her family's state in Bordeaux; how she had quickly learnt the basics of the business and managed to successfully keep it afloat until present time. Even _better_, she had wisely invested in a couple lesser vineyards –the unlucky ones impoverished enough to not withstand the war, and restored them in time for the inevitable waves of orders from the allies once they had finished licking their wounds. She liked to think she was providing a service: alcohol was effective for treating injuries, was it not? However, as much as she appreciated a good wine –specially those of her private growth, she had found she required something with a tad more... quick. She raised her glass of gin -neat, and drunk to her 'merry happy return', as her cousin had so eloquently put it. The more social life she engaged in, the more she noticed how much she actually enjoyed it. Although, it was not because of the _illuminating _conversation, or the _very interesting_ people she had to deal with: it was because she_ loved _to talk about herself. Truly, she _adored _it. She basked in the spotlight; even though she was sick and tired of her own retellings, they had become part of who she was in the eyes of her peers and thus, she adorned_ herself _a bit. She found her truths interesting, her lies, fascinating, and the marvelled faces of her listeners as she told either, most encouraging. She had visited place, sure, but she had lost count of just how many places she had _allegedly_ visited, and of course she had no idea how many places people _said_ she had visited. That was another thing she liked about her homeland: how easily her English compatriots would buy even her most blatant stories, and how they would _celebrate_ her for them. They gave her strength; they made her _important_, powerful. It was going to be such a shame to lose her favourite audience once the social season ended.

Throughout the conversation Cruella had come to deduce certain data about the strangers. Rose MacClare was a couple of months younger than Cruella, even though it appeared to be a couple of decades; she was Mary's cousin in second grade, Scottish and exactly the type of girl her own cousin would enjoy the company of, which explained why Cruella found her so irritating. Mary, on the other hand, was simply a dream: older, wiser and much more interesting. She was an exquisite conversation; she knew about a wide variety of subjects and always had some acid remark to add humour to the conversation. She had a calm energy that gave her an appearance of being always in control of herself and her surroundings, which, in turn, gave her an almost _regal_ appearance. Mary Crawley was daughter of the Earl of Grantham, a prominent figure in the House of Lords as was Rose's father, which explained Cecil's interest in them, and the fact that their whole family was in London because the younger woman was going to be presented in palace that Season explained Cruella's hasty summoning by her cousin. The conversation quickly drifted to that topic, with Mary briefly narrating her experience to satiate Cecil and his fiancée's curiosity. Rose, who seemed physically impeded to stay put for a second, smiled at her, radiating her own light. She vibrated with such energy, Cruella felt exhausted just by looking at her. «So, Cruella, are you going to be presented this Season, or have you been presented already? » «Oh, no darling...», she was genuinely amused by the suggestion. «Even if I _willed_ myself to entertain the possibility, I am certain no one would present me, as I am… I know what some of the things you have been hearing about me are about, and I know most of your mature English _roses _would dismay at the thought of escorting me near royal sight», she explained as if she were explaining a drunk that he had to open the bottle before he could drink; «so no, darling; I am not going near palace even for all the furs in existence. They might burn me for a _witch_! ». Cruella sipped her gin before resuming her gleeful banter, very much aware of what _marvellous _shades of red it was bringing to the Lady Mary's _delicious visage_. «Besides, what ever would I precise royal recognition for in life? » «Well, it is tradition-», Mary started but Cruella interrupted with a throaty laugh. «And what is it that is so good about tradition, darling? What good is ever done? All this social conventions English cling to so desperately only perpetuate impracticalities and atrophies; they persevere in its own _irrelevance_. They are redundant, they are boring, they halt evolution, they-» «_Goodness_, you are honest to a fault! », Mary interrupted but it did not bother her, it was exactly what she had been aiming for; she had been so quiet during the whole dialogue. «I remarked the same earlier, actually», Lord Gilligham meddled, not wasting a second to be noticed by Mary; «I was saying how refreshing it is». Cruella's lips formed a crooked smile which she directed at Mary, «and I do not even try». «Well, that's not exactly how I would call it... », Mary looked at her defiantly; «surely you must respect those traditions valued by your parents-» «I abhor anything valued by my family, as a matter of fact, particularly that which has to do with my parents», Cruella bluntly proclaimed, causing a baffled jaw drop from the woman in front of her. Lord Gilligham reacted. «Mary... », he rested his hand reassuringly above her arm, as if to say, 'allow me'; the intimacy of the gesture made Cruella feel a bit jealous, but a bit disgusted as well, by the domesticity hidden in it. «I apologize, Lady De Vil, Cecil, Ms. Travers; I didn't have time to explain the situation to her». Mary raised an elegant eyebrow in question but no one cared to clarify the situation, «if there's anything that requires an explanation, I would say it is Lady De Vil's rancour. What could your family have done to deserve such shocking-» «My parents locked me up in an attic», Cruella intervened, appearing as undaunted as she felt, she even gave her a sarcastic grin; «they wanted to leave it all in the family, so they became very... protective of me. As if I were to run away with the first person that happened by». She crossed her arms, embracing herself, «one of my stepfathers did offer, though-» «Stop talking. Please, you do not have to explain any further», Marry caught her middle sentence. «Cousin Marry! », Rose's hand flew to her chest in an offended gesture, while her other hand went to cover Cruella's gloved one; she fought the urge to take it away. «What? It's alright, I know enough. I understand» «It does not appear so, darling...», Cruella teased. Lord Gilligham tried to reach her arm again, but Mary moved it, rejecting the intention. «I only think it's not entirely fair to air such delicate family matters at a table full of strangers», Mary stated with a shrug. «You see, darling, I would much rather treat it as criminal matters since that is what it is. I was a victim to my parents' mental disorders. Their crimes against me, their only child, were an abomination into the eyes of civilised society; and I would have liked justice done, were not for their untimely deaths, which, in all honesty, could not have come quickly enough for my benefit», Cruella spoke calmly, the gin, thankfully, placating her inner Devil; «So no, my Lady, I am not exactly keen on family and tradition; I refuse to become victim to neither ». Silence fell upon them like a thick fog, weighing heavy on their heads. Oh, how Cruella _loved_ to play the victim! Everyone just stared at their drinks for a long while, looking for a way to break through the wall of bricks they had just clashed their collective head against. They were all so _lost_, and she was the only one in control of the situation. It was Anthony who finally spoke, the brave male; she figured she should give him that, at least. «I think what Mary just failed to articul-», he was soon interrupted by the aforementioned; «thank you, Anthony, for your delicacy, but I don't need you to make excuses for me», said the woman, touching his hand reassuringly. Mary turned to look Cruella in the eyes; there was a wide variety of emotions streaming from her expression as she began –embarrassment being unquestionably the most prominent. «I apologise. I could not possibly imagine what you've been through and thus, I spoke out of mere ignorance. I am sorry if I offended or wounded you in any way». Cruella considered her with care, while sipping from her glass. She could not sense insincerity in Mary's words, which meant she had just received a heartfelt apology from a _queen,_ no less; she savoured the moment. A sudden smirk formed on her lips, she answered Mary while stretching on her chair, «all forgotten, darling! There is nothing to be sorry about, except for the poor service in this place. This table needs more gin! ». As she waved to catch the attention of the waiter, Cecil stood, «well, now that we are all friends again, what about partaking in a bit of that sinfully deliciously tune, hm? Tony, my friend, Mal is dying to sway in the arms of a Viscount, you know? Will you indulge her? »; his fiancée slapped his arm playfully with her napkin, but she was already standing up. Anthony gave Mary an uncertain look; he had obviously planned to sway in her arms that evening. «Oh, you must try it. Viscounts step in your feed far less than Barons! Besides, Tony is a wonderful dancer, as I'm sure he will be happy to demonstrate», she gave the male a significant look, a warning: do not be rude. Anthony stood, beaten, and held the hand the female offered until they were lost amongst the dancing crowd. «Dear Rose, will you do me the honour of making our grandparents roll in their graves? », Cecil said as he bowed profusely; whatever his intention, Cruella's and Mary's eyes were the first that rolled that night. Rose giggled, enchanted, as she held his hand, «you must excuse dear Cecil, cousin Mary: he has a rather dark sense of humour». «Ow, you adore me as I am, Rosebud; you know you do». He took her in his arms and left for the dance floor in a waltz flourish that little had to do with the jazz playing in the background.

Sharing a table with such captivating woman was certainly something she had not foreseen for her evening, but it was not an unwelcomed opportunity. Mary sat before her, looking down at her glass without really looking, running her finger over the smooth surface. Cruella wondered if their previous argument had something to do with it. She had only intended to rile the woman up a bit, for she was certain you only actually got to know someone in the heat of an altercation, when the mind is aroused and animalistic. People, she had observed over her years abroad, were an elaborate ensemble of nothing. Since the second we started breathing, surroundings erect social coatings, layer after layer, concealing the very complex structure below with a thick blank, prepared for others to write on us. Cruella had been born unfiltered and remained so during her formative years, and the more she knew people, the more she saw the bright side to her mother's unfair treatment, for she now stood against the world bare, complex, permanently restructuring herself; she was almost _grateful_ for it, really. Cruella produced a single cigarette and a long dark mahogany cigarette holder from her clutch. She never carried matches since there was always someone willing to run across the room to offer her fire but she was nothing if not resourceful; she lit it with one of the candles, which made Mary lift her sight and smile. Cruella smiled back at her, «a woman has to be able to fend for herself these days, do you not agree? ». «Certainly. These days so much is required of us, isn't it? », Mary chuckled dismissively; «Sometimes it feels like everyone is lining up to demand a piece of me». Cruella did not respond at first; she just looked on for a moment, inhaling the smoke, assessing her. She could see the layers starting to peel off the woman in front of her. It was obvious there was something on her mind that wanted to come out, and Cruella found herself wanting to hear it –which was odd, to be honest. She liked this woman very much. She radiated control, dignity, elegance: she knew first impressions were deceiving more times than not, but Cruella was enslaved to them; and getting to know someone, peering beneath the layers, was a two-edged sword that could crumble the most alluring version of oneself. Cruella decided she did not care. «Darling», she called their waiter, who was passing by, «how long for those drinks? I have a mind to go to the bar and take a bottle myself at this point. Also, the lady will have a glass of Devil's _Sauvignon_. _Tonight_, if possible». She dismissed the waiter and turned to face Mary again, «so, are you going to tell me what is troubling you, darling Mary, or should we wait for the drinks to arrive and let the alcohol do the talking? ». Mary smiled at the joke and leant on her sit, relaxing, «Tony is right, your outspokenness is rather refreshing». «Blame the French. I have always been like this but they encouraged it». Mary laughed half-heartily. «I _do_ blame them for a lot of things…», she drifted off, considering Cruella for a while; «I wonder…» The corner of her mouth twitched and she looked down, embarrassed; she wanted to ask her something but it was obviously difficult for her to phrase it. Cruella figured she was not very keen on doubting herself, much less making display of it; she could sympathize with that. Mary stood and quickly moved to sit where Cecil's fiancée had been sitting, right next to Cruella. Oh, and how grateful she was to have had a cigarette numbing her senses at the moment, for the woman was starting to bringing them to life. Cruella could almost feel the softness of her skin on her fingers, and the perfume she wore, which blended _perfectly_ with her natural scent… She inhaled of her holder, internally summoning gin with all her might; she was going to need it. «How did you do it? How did you manage to take on your family's business? How so you make decisions everyday when you feel you so unprepared? », the layers disappeared, walls of control and confidence crumbling down around Mary. «No, I'm sorry. I don't know if you were unprepared. You are obviously very capable… My husband, you see, he died in an accident about a year ago. He left me a beautiful son and my family's estate, which I have to run now, for him and my family –not to mention the whole earldom. The problem is I have no idea what to do. I'm trying to learn how to administrate it properly, and I understand the basics of the job, but how am I to see ahead? How am I to make decisions just by calculating and hoping for the best? I was not educated with the blind confidence most men bring to their profession. The well-being of so many is in my hands now, and I know it». Their drinks arrived, which both greatly appreciated. They took the time it took the waiter to serve them to collect their thoughts.

Cruella was a bit disappointed with this side of Mary, in all honesty, but she felt compassionate towards the woman: she was a strong person. Whatever image of control had dropped during their dialogue, she was rapidly starting to recover, right before her eyes. «So please, how do you manage to hold everything together? Any little piece of advice is very much welcome». «First of all, darling, let us drink, for my cousin has finally introduced me to someone so worthy of my time. _Chin chin_ and all that», she let the gin pour down her throat, leaving the familiar burning sensation overcome her palate and the sharp scent make its way to her sensitive nose. This was _exactly_ what she adored about her signature drink: how fast it acted. She saw Mary drink an exploratory sip, and then repeating but with much more confidence; she seem to like it. «Now tell me, are you enjoying your wine? » «A lot, I must say. It's quite delicious», Mary took another sip, for emphasis. «Well I am honoured to have pleased you so. You see, that is one of my first _Sauvignon Blanc_, from when I took over the business; I cannot be certain without the bottle, but you are probably tasting one of my first crops right now». Mary looked amazed by her words. «This particular kind of wine is better unoaked so its production is rather fast, which makes it a product in constant offer. It is a young wine, perfect for consumption between two to five years after fermentation, which makes it a product in constant demand. It has got hard tannins but the taste is fruity and not especially demanding on its consumer, which makes it a universally likeable product. And, above all, it is easy to make, which makes it an accessible product. I had a vague notion of everything I just said when I first took over, since I used to read my father's archives while growing up. Filthy attics and deranged parents make child play rather difficult. But the truth is, darling…», Cruella leaned forward a bit and waited for Mary to imitate her to continue; «I only ordered for the _Sauvignon Blanc_ to remain unoaked because, at the time, I was partial to the fruity flavour of fresh wine rather than the smoky flavour the barrels gave it». Cruella reclined on her seat and inhaled the last of her cigarette, savouring Mary's reaction. Mary returned to an upright position in her seat; she seemed to reflect on what had just been said. «Are you telling me it was beginner's luck? », she finally inquired. Cruella laughed a throaty laugh, «I am telling you to _learn_, darling. Get to know your product better than you know yourself: find out what you like about it, what you dislike about it, what its advantages are, what its liabilities are, and then improve it to your own satisfaction. Stop thinking about what others expect from your work; you have to like it yourself first and most before others get their voices into the matter. In any sort of business –as I have come to observe, from this establishment to Cecil's growing fur _emporium_, there is a certain degree of risk so there is no secret method that will assure you success. One just has to present the best product possible and _hope for the best_, to quote your own words. That is the best advice I can give you».

Mary frowned, deep in thought. As she drifted away in her introspection, Cruella returned the holder into her clutch and finished her drink in one gulp. She recognised her favourite song, Dixieland Jass Band's Satanic Blues, played by the band on the stage, which made her scream internally with joy; the night was going better than she expected. She considered starting her cousin's gin but Mary barged in before she could decide. She smiled broadly at her, «shouldn't it be me the one giving wise advice to you? No one who heard our conversation would think you are ten years younger than me. I am finding hard to believe it, myself! » Cruella laughed, «one of the _perks_ of living in an attic, darling: no negative criticism of any kind sprouts great confidence». «Well, I'm still not about to do something like that to dear George, but I definitely see the value right now», Mary laughed and took another sip of wine. She seemed much more relaxed now: her shoulders loose, her arms resting on the table, fingers making idle circles on the table cloth. Always one for extremes, Cruella was good at making people around her either very tense or very comfortable; she let the silence hang, enjoying the effect she had achieved on Mary. «So _Cruella_», the aforementioned look at Mary wide eyed, taken aback by the familiarity with which she spoke her name and by her own reaction when she heard it. Her efforts to keep herself numbed with alcohol had being in vain: Mary was there, very present in all of her body. She cursed herself for not drinking her cousin's gin earlier, now she could not bring herself to do it; she had found out what it was to be intoxicated by the lady, and she liked it. Fortunately, Mary did not seem to realise her new friend's struggle and continued. «What a curious name, _Cruella_. There must be a story behind it, surely…» Cruella cleared her throat, which had gone dry all of a sudden. «My, eh… mother, she wanted to name me Ella, in my grandmother's honour. I was born the same day she died, you see, and mother loved her very much. She often said I had taken her mother from her; I can only assume she wanted me to remember that for the rest of my days». Cruella saw Mary's fingers fidgeting about on the table but she did not interrupt her this time, «my father wanted something, uhm, more _him_ but mummy dear would not change her pretty mind so, instead, he was allowed to pick my other name. Now, there is a method of classification the French use in the Bordeaux region to decide which wine would carry the prestige of the area: the _Grand Cru Classé _list. The highest rank, given to the most excellent of wines in the region, is called _Premier Cru_, which means 'First Growth'. My first name is Prim, for the latin word for 'first', 'primum': Prim Cruella De Vil, first growth of Coup and Madeline De Vil, the most excellent». After the familiar explanation, she usually dismissed it as some ridiculous jape for her father to entertain other viticulture fanatics but she could not bring herself to do it right now. She was not at all reserved about her life. She would talk about herself for hours as long as someone was listening, really, so this story had been told at least a hundred times before; it should not have been a problem to disregard it as one of the thousand ways in which her parents tried to ruin her life. Nonetheless, she could not do it in front of this woman. She examined herself and found that she _wanted_ to appear vulnerable, she wanted to be contained; only, it was not exactly her. The Devil, her inner Devil, was wide awake. Cruella could only watch as her sister took over. «It sounds to me like there's more to your parents than appearance suggests», she smiled; «And of course, there's more to you than a peculiar name. You are very accomplished for such a young woman and you are making a name for yourself beyond your family's influence. Even you appearance is impressive, if a bit eccentric, but that only adds to your cha-», Mary suddenly stopped. Cruella –or rather her Devil, had reached for Mary's hand, which had been lying on the table a second earlier. She had reached and intertwined her fingers with Mary's, causing the woman to tense immediately. They were cold but extremely terse, as if they had never lifted more than a handkerchief. She caressed them softly, causing the woman they belonged to a quiver; however, she did not retreat her hand, she just stared at Cruella in shock. Devil, who had been gazing at the beautiful mess of interlaced delicate fingers, lifted her eyes, which locked on Mary's darker ones. She leaned forward towards those eyes, when suddenly they left, along with the cold touch of her fingers. When Cruella came to herself, she saw Mary standing in front of her but at a moderate distance: arms crossed, embracing herself, trembling slightly. It felt like hours until she finally spoke, «I'm not stupid, Lady De Vil. I have heard of Berliner cabarets and French writer's parlours; I understand. But this is England, and you cannot act like this in England, especially in public», Cruella slowly reclined on her seat, waiting for the threats or the blackmail, or whatever was coming; she deserved it for having read the situation so wrong, even if had been mostly Devil's fault. «In gratitude for our conversation and your invaluable advice, I'm going to let this pass. We can never see each other again», Mary added. She hastily turned and walked into the dance floor until she was completely out of sight, lost in the crowd.

Cruella was _mad_. One thing was to come forth as vulnerable but to actually _allow_ herself that level of transparency had been stupid and reckless. As if she did not know her intentions were ill-fated since the very beginning. Devil should know better by now! If Mary's warning was serious, now she could not risk the visits and parties for the rest of the social season, lest she wanted her intimacy divulged and her name banned from every house in London. All the time she had spent in London flannelling potential business partners would have been in vain. She decided for a strategic retreat. Her cousin's gin looked categorically inviting right now; she gulped it down as he and his fiancée arrived at their table. «Cousin dear, did you and Mary fell out again? She seemed most disturbed when she found us on the dance floor. They've gone home now, the ingrates. Although they _were_ very gracious about the-» «Darling, shall we talk in private? », she did not wait for an answer, she only stood and made her way towards the bathrooms at a fast pace, Cecil running to catch up. There was a telephone booth beside the facilities. Wooden, private, a bit narrow for her taste but it would have to do. She waited for Cecil, a bit anxious; this needed to work. «What is the matter, dear? », Cecil arrived at the deserted corridor a bit short of breath for the run, and he was about to get far worse. Cruella took him by the lapel of his double breasted dinner jacket and threw him inside the wooden box; immediately following, she closed the curtain behind her, before anyone could see. «Cruel-», it was. As she began to kiss him and touch him with an apparent hunger she did not really feel. It was cruel to denigrate herself to these methods, especially with her slimy cousin, but she had brought it upon herself so she was going to endure it. She lifted her right leg, supporting it against the corner seat of the booth, and pressed her knee the male's groin. The movement forced a deep grunt out of his throat; the bulge on his pants had begun to grow. Cruella pulled back then, getting as far as him as it was possible in the confined space. The male was breathing heavily; she recognised the shadow of lust covering his eyes, giving them the animalistic quality she knew all so well. The woman smirked, a bit proud of herself, for a job well done. It seemed he did not exclusively liked males after all; if that mousy female of him learnt how to play him, they could actually enjoy a good marriage. Cruella exhaled her magic towards him; the green vortex surrounded and invaded him, subduing him to her command. She had put him on the leash. «Straighten yourself up, you are a right mess», the male did as he was told, making himself as impeccable as if he had just arrived. «Now, darling, this is how we play this, pay close attention. You are going to refuse the title as heir apparent; being the only one left, it is going to die with us. You are going to take what money and friends you have made along these three years and you are going to make the most of it. You are not allowed to visit anymore aristocrats; only those with whom you are already into business with. You are going to support me with a monthly allowance from now on, in compensation for letting my family name die; it is the least you can do». It was not only to lessen the probability of him encountering Mary but to make sure she would not have to deal with that nonsensical peerage system and its devotees ever again. Always one for extremes, if Cruella could not have it all, she would have nothing. «And finally, you are going to forget what we just did here. Now go to your fiancée and buy the most expensive champagne they have in this dump; we are celebrating that she withstands you». She released the leash and let go of his dead weight in her mind. Cecil blinked. He seemed utterly confused but he managed to stumble his way out of booth and down the corridor.

Cruella close the curtain again and sat for a moment, biting her thumb. Now for the hard part. She picked up the phone, «Yes, connect me with De Vil Manor»; she waited, tapping the wooden wall with her fingernails. «This is Cruella. Listen, I want to travel tomorrow first thing; tell the maid to pack everything properly. I will be there shortly», she paused to listen to her interlocutor; «I still do not know».

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_Yes_, I did. You _cannot_ expect me to have one of my favourite characters of all time living in the same context of one of my favourite TV series of all time and not do _everything_ about it. I wish Downton had more gay representation. Last season, when Mary and Mabel met, was I the only one who saw the sparks…? Was I? I see... A 'sorry' or a 'you're welcome' may be in order; take whichever you feel you need. Oh, and btw, this was a one-time thing, I assure you; it does not qualify for the crossover section.

I figured it didn't actually make sense for Cruella's power to control animals not to work on humans, since we are also animals. According to the Triune Brain theory, the thing that differentiates us from other animals is that we have the Paleomammalian (emotions) and Neocortex (higher functions like memory or language) regions of our brains more developed than our Reptilian (vital functions, instinct) region, which is completely inversed on all the other animals. However, developed as it may be, our brain can succumb to the Reptilian region in certain occasions like anger, sexual arousal or when we're forced into survival mode, making us a bit more animalistic. So those are the occasions when Cruella's powers apply to humans. I thought I would explain it here since Cru won't be able to, for this theory wasn't published until the 60s.

¡Hola, querida **FilipinaPossible**! I know you liked the dark tone because that is what Celestia Ludenberg would like. Imagine Cruella in a gothic castle, rocking those leather pants, seating in a throne of roses, surrounded by bishounen and bishoujo… (Wait is that not a Tokyo Hotel vid?) The mind races~ Thanks for taking the time to review, dahling; much appreciated.

Offer still stands, write me with a 'hello, darling' in your mother language, and it will probably appear on future chapters. I think I will need a couple of those soon…

Next chapter: my first attempt at smut, school, singing, self, old and new friends.

**Albums listened:** Dixieland Jass Band's _The Original Dixieland Jass Band_; Couer de Pirate's _Blonde_; _Les Chansons d'Amour_ OST.


	4. Self-inflicted Curses

**Cruella De Vil nor any other Once Upon A Time' nor Disney' character belongs to my humble person. If they did, they'd be cooler.**

**Smut ahead. Get kids, plushies and pets out of the room now.**

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She loved the feeling of soft fabric and well-toned curves against her skin. As her sky blue eyes followed the slow movements of her fingers she bit and bit her lower lip, rousing jolts of excitement through her body; little sparks shooting up her spine. She lifted her gaze and admired her whole figure reflected on the mirror. The silk silver nightgown cascaded from her bosom to her feet flawlessly, hugged the gentle curve of her hips slightly, where her fingers danced and caressed, following the natural concavity that lead to her ribcage. She couldn't tell if the mirror was foggy from her own lustful gasps or her eyes were just misty from anticipation. There was something about the female body that was so sensuous; yes, a lot of things, really. The delicious smells, the soft touch, the captivating sounds, the unique tastes, the memorable sights: it all made for an overly satisfying experience and drove her absolutely mad with desire. She locked eyes with herself and fixated on the soft blush appearing over her nose. The redness fitted with her cherry lips and her white complexion, like blood on a snowy field, like the bloodmeal she used to feed her private vineyards in winter. She looked delicious and she could not help herself anymore: the nightgown had to go. It came off with a pant, result of her hands scudding against her own skin as she took the delicate garment off, as careful as she felt able. She was absolutely delicious. All flawless creamy skin and perfect geometry: sharp angles mixed with subtle circles, and her two favourite curves already rosy and crested, pointing high and demanding attention. She thought of Lady Mary then, how handsome she would look next to her in the mirror, melting with her neck and hips into wonderful wholly chaos. Then the Berliner girls and the Parisian girls came to mind; their caresses still very present on every inch of exposed skin. Her whole being lit, suddenly very sensitive to the touch, and a secret hunger overcame her, a hunger placed in her lower region. She gently extended the garment over the side of the bed behind her, careful not to wrinkle it, then slowly settled on the corner next to it, still admiring her reflection. Oh how glad was Cruella to have insisted on a full-sized mirror! Her right leg rose from the floor and found support on the bed, as did the rest of her body when she saw the glistening wetness between her legs, a sight that made her breath hitch and the hunger grow. Patience was for the saints and her Devil wouldn't take anymore. Two fingers unceremoniously entered her, causing a moan to catch on her throat. She contorted at the sudden jolt of pleasure raising from her sides when her fingers hit a familiar sensitive spot inside her; she pressed rapidly, extracting more quick little moans from her chest, which was heaving, trying to catch up. Cruella felt light-headed but she was accustomed to the roughness of her Devil, and rather enjoyed it, actually. Her free hand rose to her chest and squeezed one erect nipple, sending a thunderbolt down her spine, directly to her beating core. Her hand then flew to her heart –which she was positive was down there and not in her chest, rubbing and squeezing, causing her hips to thrust frantically against the intruding fingers, hungry for more. It was so violent! She rubbed furiously, meeting every vibration her moans provoked. She had not noticed when she had closed her eyes but when she opened them again she saw herself, or rather a version of herself, with messier hair and bared teeth, her eyes ablaze with scorching desire. It was feral and dangerous, and positively divine. Her inner Devil leaned in and kissed her, bearing teeth and claws on tender flesh, seeking in herself the blood she was denied of by others. Cruella could not tell pleasure from pain anymore. She locked eyes with her reflection in the mirror and spotted the darker shade of red trickling from her lower lip, dripping on her flushed breasts, emanating its sharp coppery essence. She climaxed with a guttural howl, her senses overloaded. For a second, the colours were brighter, the sounds were louder and the scents were sharper, as in there was a known scent stomping its way upstairs to her fabulously decorated flat. Her reflection met her gaze with a profoundly bored and slightly annoyed expression. «Can a girl kiss herself in peace? Absolutely not», she sighed as she climb out of bed.

«Well hello, darling. Were you around the neighbourhood? » The male's back was to her but there was no mistaking it, since it was probably the part of him she knew best by now. Impassive, in spite of her sudden entrance, he turned his head halfway and raised a bottle of her private Bordeaux _reservoir_ –which he had been examining prior her arrival at the lounge, in silent inquiry. «_Oh_ is it time for supper already? Bring two glasses, will you? », she strolled through the room, making a show of her regal form in the silk nightgown and robe. She wore the robe as if it were a shawl, only it was barely covering her shoulders. As she sat on the tête-à-tête –her favourite seat in the flat, one of the strips of her nightgown fell. She kissed her bare shoulder, slightly grazing her skin with her permanently cherry lips that never left a mark. It made her stomach flutter a bit and her eyes close in relaxation; kissing herself had always been many kinds of comforting. «My lady… », Jefferson offered the glass of wine to her and crossed the room to the settee. He sipped the reddish hue and paused for a while, then swallow as he examined the liquid in his glass against light. «This is exquisite. I almost don't want to know who you used this time, but I definitely won't complain». «Do not be silly, darling. You know very well _I_ do not _use_ anyone», Cruella retorted as she crossed her legs and leaned against the sofa; «but I _do_ remember having a conversation with Jacques about the good health of the people who live in the outskirts. How much oxygen they have on their blood…» She gave a throaty laugh and sipped from her glass, «hmm… He seemed most interested». «Well it _is_ difficult to deny my lady anything», Jefferson sneered; «hence my presence here in this _lovely _evening». Cruella openly laughed at the male's words, which were beautifully emphasized by the sounds of a coming downpour. «We both _know_ you are not currently on the leash, darling. You are here because you cannot imagine living without me after all these wonderful ends of March we've spent together». The male chuckled silently, filling their glasses once again, while she reached for her cigarette holder on the tea table. «Talking of which, is it time for me to give you your birthday gift yet? », Jefferson asked, still amused. Cruella leaned on the sofa once more, inhaling deeply the acrid substance, enjoying the way it combined with the aftertaste of the wine. His fingers taping against the glass, his leg trembling slightly: he was obviously expecting to finish their business once and for all, but she was not about to be rushed into such a decision. There was still plenty to enjoy in this world and she intended to do so in her own time, his peace of mind was of no consequence. She exhaled. «Does it still function? », she asked signalizing the hat he had placed right by him, on the settee. It was the same ridiculous hat he had brought for the last 3 years, only the upholstery inside had being replaced by a piece of the fur coat she had given him on their first encounter. The smiling male put the hat on his lap and spun it ever so delicately, leaving it hovering and swirling in a lazy motion over his legs. He leaned over the accessory to examine it in detail. «It does, and the magic on the fur doesn't seem to be wearing off just yet», he suddenly lifted his gaze to her; «doesn't mean it will work forever. All magic comes with a price». «I know, darling, and I am paying», her gaze pierced him with playful malice; «I do entertain you every time you pass by, do I not? »

_Cold breeze entered from the door that led to the garden, and Cruella felt sudden chill but was unsure if it was a reaction to the breeze in contact with her wet skin or sheer excitement for the marvellous idea she had just had. «It is quite simple, Jefferson darling: we both have something the other wants. Moreover, you have something I want, but I have something you desperately need. I will give you my beloved fur coat for you to fuel your… laughably ridiculous hat and go back to your home. In exchange, you will provide me transportation; the kind that will get me to other realm when this one inevitably wears me out to madness», the woman paused, paying close attention to the male's reaction. Jefferson looked at her incredulous, as if he could not believe the vortex of nonsense he had falling into: the male who lived inside a rabbit hole. «And just how do you plan for me to know when that happens? Should I take a telephone for you to ring me when you decide? » Cruella laughed, «of course not! What a silly notion! No, you are going to come here every year until I decide. March the 31th every year: it will be our anniversary, darling», she winked. «You will be like my own personal fairly godmother: constantly watching over me. Of course, you will have to stock yourself with a supply of magical items to make you company; we do not want you to get stuck here again now, do we? I expect you can manage to discover the difference of time between our realms, and be clever enough to do the math to know exactly when you must return to me; is that understood? » The male stood in place. He looked at her with astonishment; he could not believe this woman. Cruella sighed. «Darling», she lightly massaged the bridge of her nose; «do not force me to put your leash on again». He frowned at her, «what makes you think I'll keep such promise, if I decide to make it in the first place. As you said, I'm no more than a glorified thief; I could just take the coat and never see you again». Cruella considered this for a while. It was true enough: logically, she could never be absolutely certain of the male's honour. However, he stroke her as sincere, if involuntarily, and she had learnt to trust her instincts for such matters. Always relay on drunks, children and mad men for honesty, she figured as she took the coat off, caressing it. Besides, if she had learnt something from her second stepfather, it was that, in business, one needed to risk some to gain some. Ideally one would risk few to gain a lot, and this was what she was doing: she risked an already ruined piece of clothes to gain the Universe. It was definitely a good wager. «I cannot, Jefferson darling…», she sighed dramatically and tossed him the fur; «but I have not only given you a way back home now, have I? I also gave you your life, in a way. I could have killed you in a thousand different ways while you were under my command, but I did not. » Jefferson laughed, «oh, so I should be grateful because you spared my life. Brilliant! » «You broke into my home, you put me in danger: I had every reason to shoot you out of your misery but I did not». She was starting to get mad; her voice trembled slightly, but she refused to let her anger win. She had this under control. « You owe me a great deal, darling, like it or not, and what I am certain of is that you are the kind of… person who always pays his debts». The male was thinking, he ran his hands over the ink stains, not quite touching them. Cruella could almost see the inner fight he was going through: good nature versus common sense, and she had placed all her chips on the better lighted side. Light made everything appear clear, but it also made shadows. «Besides, if you wanted to betray me you would have done so already; it has been a while since I released you from the leash and you have made no attempt to harm me. You have forsaken your sole chance to escape». A crooked smile played on her lips, an eyebrow rose; «I rather trust you now, darling». She did not, but if she needed to appeal to his heart to get what she wanted, she was going all the way. It was obvious this male had someone to come back to, from the way he longingly stroked the fabric and his general desperation to acquire what he needed. He was a professional thief, as he had implied, with a whole life of experience, and yet his efforts to retrieve the coat had been sloppy as her own endeavours, earlier that night, had been. As full of passion and blind rage. As full of love. «I sense we have an agreement… » Jefferson gave her an irritated look: a kid found out. He knew she had him, and so he extended his arm, reaching for her hand to close the deal. Cruella recoiled a bit, grabbing her own hand and nestling it to her chest; «oh, I do not do that, darling, but I will take your word». «You have my word, then», he took the coat and the hat and started his way outside. He stopped at the garden door and turned to face her one more time; «until next year, my lady», he bowed pretentiously, mockingly, and resumed his gait out of the house. The purple flashes of light and stormy sounds that followed indicated that the male was gone. Until the following year, of course. _

The wine tasted sweeter when the male glared at her with contempt. She finished it in one draught, «and as much as I enjoy playing host, I must see you on your way, darling, I have a class to attend to in the morning, and I ought to rest». The male looked at her blankly for a second, slowly forming a mocking smile, «Class, is it…? » «Oh spare me the brass, or do I have to remind you of the glass of misappropriated beverage you are holding while on my settee? » The teasing twinkle in his eyes faded as he emptied his glass, «there's my answer then». Jefferson stood, making his way to the door with the subtle stagger of a male who could not hold his drinks. It was not the first time Cruella had seen him like this, even though he had drank much more heavily in past occasions; no matter the amount, he would always end up the same. It was as if he could not get past a certain estate, as much as he tried; just like his aging, which did not seem to reach him either. She figured it must have been the way he had been written: permanently teetering over the edge, every edge; from sanity to business to intoxication, what a wretched, most compelling way of living. «A _pleasure_ as always, my _lady_. I wish you the best of luck on your education», he smiled mischievously; «your teachers are going to need every rabbit foot in existence». She turned and left for her bedroom, not paying him any mind. As she began the slow ascend to her room, midnight stroke. She could hear then the beckoning bell of the wall clock, a sudden mocking shout of, 'many happy returns!', followed by the always nice heavy sound of the door colliding against its frame.

She had enrolled in Lady Margaret's Hall after hearing marvels of their new degrees' programs for women. Not that she was especially interested in having one, not that she needed it; she was, after all, the wealthy owner of a very old, very prestigious, very prosperous business. Titles or validation were of no interest to Cruella De Vil, wine magnate; all that she needed, professionally speaking, had been promised to her the day she was born. And she had taken it by the horns; she had learnt to manage it through careful study of her father's notes and the guidance of the family's lawyers and accountants. Cecil, her cousin, had had a slight influence on her as well, even if she would not openly admit it. Cruella was used to learn on her own. She had had need of this skill while growing up on that blasted attic, where she would do anything she could to keep her mind functioning. She was well versed in a great variety of topics, even more so than most socialites, with all her entrepreneurial background; besides, she had actually lived the experiences most of her aristocrat peers only liked to gabble about with awe or disapproval (maybe more of the last one). However, there was knowledge that seemed obscure; topics ordinary people would not talk about or did not know about, and things books could fall short on exposing. Biology, for instance, was a subject she was most interested in, but did not know where to start. Cruella had gone through quite a number of changes since she had been bathed with the magical ink. Her senses had become much more refined, her reactions quicker, her impulses uncontrollable: she had developed a sharp instinct that could only be described as animalistic. It was useful, of course, but it had brought her Devil to a little explored behavioural path; and a power such as that of _the leash_ was to be accounted for as well. She wanted, no, _needed_ to understand these abilities so they could be of use to her; so they could reach their full potential. That is why she was seated in the Panther right now, making the 30 minute drive from the house to Norham Gardens in 15 minutes, to achieve a classy 20 minute delay for today's induction ceremony. The program listed a rather large list of activities, including a tour of the premises, a social gathering with refreshments (she channelled all her will power to wish for alcohol, even though she knew she was in England) and a presentation from the student choir, which she was very much looking forward to. Before all the fun, though, there were a good amount of speeches she planned on happily ignore in favour of the much more alluring task of _femme spotting_; which was, actually, a whole other sort of fun in itself. She climbed out of the car, near the main building entrance. As she entered, she heard soft music coming from the room to her right: a large hall filled with females of different ages and social background, seated on two separate blocks of chairs across the room. In front of them, an upright piano produced a solemn, sweet music, in the hands of a stern looking female, who was probably the oldest person in the room. She was delicately motioning her heads in an attempt to guide the group of young females singing at her left, facing the crowd. It seemed the dull speeches had lasted considerably less than anticipated, and Cruella had almost missed the spectacle, which would have been far more painful. But she did not. She had arrived in time for an oddly reassuring display of the few perks of Christendom: a moving performance of 'Be Still My Soul', blissfully harmonized by a full female choir. She stopped at the door for a second to immerse herself in the sounds, which became more powerful once she had closed her eyes. She could fill the vibrations of the chords on her skin; the smell and taste of flowery perfume surrounded her; colours and forms exploded all over her closed eyelids. She could, also, hear each one of the voices independently; they would all originate on their own and then twirl and melt together with the others, as the filaments of cotton string, forming a stronger composition. But there was a thread that ran loose, unattached from the others: too unique to disappear in the multitude. But suddenly it did. The voice melted away in the silence, and Cruella feared she might lose it forever, even though she did not possess it… yet. She had just began to search for it when the voices quietened and the music slowly transfixed into another song, which she anticipated to be 'Amazing Grace', a classic for this sort of situation.

_Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. _

There it was.

_That saved a wretch like me.  
_  
The voice raised above the others, giving Cruella a sudden chill.

_I once was lost but now am found._

Her eyes rapidly scanned the room, the emptiness in her chest growing with every second wasted, not knowing whom it belonged to.

_Was blind, but now I see._

She finally found her in the first line.

No wonder she had missed her: the female was rather… _plain_, at first sight. Average height, average weight, average complexion; the only thing that made her stand-out was a beautiful mane of strawberry blonde hair, neatly tied in a tight bun, and her voice, of course. Cruella's thoughts came and went as gushes of air, but, ironically, seemed to actually suck the oxygen away from her brain. She suddenly felt vulnerable, small: ridiculous. How could she appeal to this fem- no, to this _woman_? Was she enough? Would she _ever_ be? Her voice was unique, _so special_; such work of art would never set eyes on her, surely. But then she did. The woman idly opened her eyes and fixed them on Cruella, as if they had been closed looking at her from the start. It was rather an alien feeling for her, this uncomfortable self-awareness. She felt a pressure in her chest that she supposed was what people called panic. She suddenly felt the full weight of her jewels and albino bear coat on her body. _Albino bear coat_. It was absurd! Cruella usually dressed to be the centre of attention whenever she went but now all she wanted was to make everything disappear and just blend in her little black dress, even if she freezed to death. She was about to make a low-key-yet-elegant exit when the woman smiled at her without warning. If Cruella was vulnerable a second ago, now she was positively defenceless; the woman smiled with her eyes, with a tiny gleam of kindness shimmering in the dark orbs. Her body began to move towards the sweet eyes, not entirely conscious. The woman had stopped singing and Cruella couldn't understand why. Her Devil demanded an explanation: someone had taken her music away from her again and it was unbearable. She was about to go get it back when she was brought back to consciousness by a hand around her right wrist, which she immediately jerked back to her chest in alarm. She turned to a slightly amused expression in the handsome face of a tall, freckly and slightly older female. She drove her lively blue eyes from her to the choir and back to her again before sneering. «There you are, sweetie! Come now, let the others enjoy the spectacle as well». She led her two rows back, where there was a couple of empty sits. «Thank you», Cruella murmured, a bit embarrassed and very much confused. «Oh, it's alright, my friend. Us girls have to look after each other around here, don't we? », the female offered her hand in a salutation but quickly retract it to her chest instead. «Pardon, you don't like to be touched, do you? My name is Victoria, it's very nice to finally meet you Miss De Vil. Or is it just Cruella? » She looked at her in disbelief, still quite confused about what had just transpired, «Cruella is fine, b- ». «Oh, I'd say Cruella's more than just fine, sweetie! You're a vision! We were dying to meet you, you know? », Victoria crossed her legs and reclined sideways on her sit, resting on her arm which was folded on the chair support. It was a position Cruella recognized as her own; the female was –as she often did herself, making herself comfortable, owning where she was. «I'm rather jealous she caught a glimpse of you first», the female turned to look at the choir once again. Cruella looked as the woman with the beautiful voice smiled at Victoria and then at her even more broadly, making her nose wrinkle a bit. «That redhead with the _agonisingly_ beautiful voice is Anita; she led my attention to you. She sings beautifully, don't you think? ». «Heavenly», Cruella agreed, incapable of taking her eyes off her… _her_ Anita. Victoria chuckle a quietly, «she's going to explode with happiness when she hears that! She's quite smitten with your legend… » With a strength she did not know she had, Cruella managed to set her eyes on the similar orbs next to her, which instantly pained her. «Legend? », she asked, struggling to find her words. «Don't you know, Cruella? You are famous! The heiress who gave up her title in pursuit of a career: you're the talk of every tea room in England, sweetie! », she added with a mischievous smile. «Anita and I nearly went on a somersault spree when we heard you were coming to Lady Margaret. We've been following your story on the tabloids since the news of the peerage. But don't tell my fiancée, yes? He's already scared to death that I'm here, actually using my pretty little head for something other than hats and hairdos», she rolled her eyes and cocked an eyebrow. Cruella felt a bit overwhelmed for an instant. She knew perfectly well she was a conversation to all the highbrow aristocrats in their bridge and brandy parties, either talked about in a condescending fashion or with jealousy, but it never occurred to her that she was being discussed in a… rather flattering fashion as well. She looked at Anita, who was now focused on her song –eyes closed again, and felt a discharge of desire pouring on her lower belly. A hunger fuelled by the fact that she now knew herself desired by the other woman, or at least an object of her interest. Besides, she had her precious music and she felt the instinctive need to protect it at all costs; to possess it for it was made for her and her alone. «I had no idea I was of public interest at such a scale! Please do tell me more, darling Victoria». The female laughed wholeheartedly, «with pleasure, _darling_. Anita and I will be having tea after this, and then we could take you to a guidance tour to Lady Margaret life: fun version. What do you say? ». Cruella laughed to herself, remembering how pitiful she had been minutes before. How _on earth_ could she have doubted herself? She was Cruella De Vil: she did as she felt, she dressed as felt, she was seen as she felt, which was always _fabulous_. Anita opened her eyes and instantly looked for hers. Cruella saw them examining her face and then climbing to her double-coloured unruly mane, which extracted a bright toothy smile from the performer. That made Cruella remeber how beautiful and unique was she herself. She decided the poor birdie did not stand a chance.

Cruella forced her eyes away from her prey and gave Victoria a sideways look and dedicated her a winning smile. «I'll bring the gin, darling! »

**.**

Hi~ I'm dreadfully sorry I've taken this long to update. I simply wasn't motivated enough, idk. Besides there's been quite a few changes in my life and I needed the time to adjust. I'll try to do better for anyone who wants to keep reading this dorkness, and for Cru, ofc; I really want to keep exploring where this is going.

As always, I'm looking for way to say 'hello, darling' in various languages; if you have one, please send. Much appreciated!

Next chapter: domesticity.

**Albums listened:** Pretty much all NIN and Them Crooked Vultures. Recommend sexy almbums?


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